


and in our beds we lie and sin

by gavorn



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Church AU, M/M, Priest AU, incubus au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4866752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gavorn/pseuds/gavorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story where Frank Iero is a demon who lives in a church.</p><p>Priest!Gerard/Incubus!Frank. </p><p>I wrote this when I was like fifteen and honestly it's fucked up and weird but I don't like taking things down no matter how much they make me cringe so...here you go</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

Gerard Arthur Way had never considered anything other than becoming a priest.  
He wasn't the most conventional priest, to be fair, but he loved his work. He loved helping people, loved the scriptures. Gerard Way loved his God.  
Gerard Way's church was a small one, and the parish even smaller, but he worked hard at his sermons each day. He had hundreds prepared, even though they only had Church Sundays and holidays. He wasn't really sure why he wrote, but it was what he did. He drew, and he smoked, and he fixed the holes in his socks, and he wrote sermons. Words and words. Some about dying, mourning, moving on- those he liked to read at funerals, though those didn't come often.  
It was the closest he came to really talking to people. His brother Mikey lived a few towns over, and they exchanged regular letters, and Mikey came every Christmas and Easter for Gerard's speeches, and he gave feedback, which Gerard appreciated a lot. But other than that, well, he didn't leave the church much. He lived in a small apartment up in the steeple, not much more than a room with a bed and a stove and a table, and a tiny bathroom off it. It was nice. Nice, he supposed, because, well, he didn't need anything more, and he could afford paper and pens, and the townspeople often donated parts of their harvest to him. They were distant, but they loved him in their own way. Gerard was grateful for that.  
But the sermons were personal on a level that "hello, thank you, God be with you"s never were. Some he even talked about the things he never had the courage to voice out loud. Those he usually put into the fire after the last stroke of the pen, sure that God himself had read them already, knowing nobody else would ever need to.  
And it was one of those letters(for that's what they were, really, letters from Gerard to himself and to God)-One of those letters that he had just finished writing on that October evening.  
He watched the flames lick at the paper, teasing, then catching completely. He watched the last scrap of words (" _I think I am more afraid to live than to die_ ") be devoured into illegibility, before the last sparks of the fire died. 

Gerard never went into the church basement.

It wasn't much more than any other church, he supposed. Sized to fit maybe a hundred people at most, modest statues of Jesus and the Mother Mary up at the tiny altar. But he loved it. He had poured his heart into that church since he was given it at the age of twenty. He painted the ragged edges of the Bibles, stopped up the leaks, fixed every draft and crack and creak.  
Except the basement. Gerard never went into the church basement.  
It wasn't superstition, honestly, he'd just never had reason to. When he asked the townspeople what was down there, they had laughed, said that their last preacher (Old Father McKenzie, God rest his soul) had simply used it for storage. Gerard would've gone down there that very first night, but he got distracted by Mikey's welcome gift (a knitting basket, which Gerard was thrilled about) and by the time he remembered he was halfway through a lumpy pair of mittens. He kept putting it off, but after a time he realized there wasn't really any point to going down there, so he might as well not waste the power. He wasn't afraid (no matter what Mikey might claim otherwise.) He just didn't need to, that was all.  
So he had been there for weeks, months, years. He didn't need to go down there. Whatever it was could stay there.  
And when he heard the scratching at the floorboards, well. It hadn't proved too difficult of a roommate over the years. Surely it would be fine. 

And sometimes, sometimes Gerard had dreams. They weren't exactly bad, but they weren't close to comfortable either, and he woke up covered in sweat even in the middle of winter, back arching, and for a moment-  
The dreams didn't come often, but Gerard dreaded when they did. And if part of that was in that they weren't all bad, maybe he could keep that to himself. Maybe if he didn't do anything about it He wouldn't mind.  
And that was all Gerard could ask, really.

So this October night. Gerard's just finished burning the letter.  
He watches the ashes cool, waits for every spark to die. He leaves the dim lantern on as he always does before changing into his worn pajamas. His bed isn't much but the blankets are warm (some knitted by Gerard, some gifts from Mikey and his wife.) He always needs more than a few because the heating is rather spotty and likes to shut down in the middle of the night, and Gerard prefers keeping his extremities.  
He curls up beneath the pile of blankets and lets himself sleep.

And Gerard has the dreams again.  
It's vivid, like it always is. Everything is dark, but in the dream, he can see despite the faded glow from the broken lantern. Nothing is exactly different, but at the same time it can't possibly be the same. Everything feels like some sort of glass or cover has been removed, leaving the colors brighter, the contrasts sharper. Gerard's vision isn't perfect in the shadows, but he can make out a silhouette moving between his legs. The room is still as cold as ever, but he doesn't need the blankets that have been pushed aside, doesn't need the thin cloth of his pajamas on his skin.  
This part is always the same.  
Gerard's not even sure what he's feeling- he's touched himself before, but it never felt anywhere close to this. He's never been tempted to stray from the celibacy of the priesthood, but this, this is the only thing that could ever change his mind.  
When he wakes up, he feels guilty, but in the darkness in his brain, he has no room for anything beyond the fingers braced on his thighs.  
(They're gripping harder than they usually do, and it scares him that there's even become a 'usually' here. Maybe if he'd been better they would've gone away. Gerard resolves to pray for the dreams to end. He never does.)  
He can't resist but to move his hips up, into the touch, bites his lip as the mouth-he's pretty sure it's a mouth-of the whatever-whoever-it-is somehow tightens further around his cock.  
And he should really be ashamed of this, but he doesn't know how to be, doesn't know how to think about anything beyond the wet heat in the dark, the curl of a tongue, the almost-chill of something cold he doesn't know how to consider. His hands find themselves moving from the blankets to what feels to be short hair, and that's different too, because he doesn't know how he could have ever forgotten the appreciative hum around his cock when his fingers twist a little too tight than can be comfortable.  
Gerard can't bite back the whimper building in his throat, doesn't remember why he'd ever had to. He lets the hesitant sound into the dark room, feels what almost could be a low laugh. The vibrations only encourage him, though, and he lets his fingers do what they want, pulling short, somewhat greasy strands. He hears another sound leave his throat- a moan, long and deep, and apparently his efforts are appreciated because he feels the fingers gripping stronger than ever. They're tracing around his hips now, under, and- oh, he can't even be bothered to stifle the noises he's making anymore. He tilts his head back, exposes his throat- he knows he's a disgrace, but if it felt this good, He could never be so merciless as to take this away.  
He's so lost in this state of bliss he barely has room to notice when there's a finger circling his hole, and when the mouth swallows down and he can't help but to lift his hips, the finger slips inside. It's not exactly pleasant at first, but he's not going to refuse anything being done to him right now, because anyone making this white-hot need boil up in his stomach can do whatever they want and he'll just babble incoherently and agree.  
They don't give him a chance to adjust before they're pushing deeper, and it feels like they can't push anymore and it's almost pain but suddenly there's heat and it feels so blindingly good that he can't help but to open his eyes and gape at the ceiling. He isn't sure he can remember how to breathe at this point, isn't sure there's anything keeping him alive besides a flicking tongue and what has to be two fingers now.  
Gerard's lost to numbness at this point, murmuring words he isn't sure he knows how to say and clutching at whatever hair and skin (he thinks it's skin) he can reach. One hand digs fingers ever-further into his thigh, and the pain provides a welcome distraction from the pleased hisses escaping the darkness. He doesn't know how he's going to be able to live, going to be able to breathe ever again.  
And then the fingers press in the exact right place one more time and Gerard falls apart, comes harder than he ever has. There's a pleased purr around his cock that he's nearly certain would've pushed him over the edge if he hadn't already been there. He'd be worried about the mess but something about the way that the mouth is sucking down like they mean to take every last drop tells him that's covered.  
Gerard rolls his spine, stretches before losing himself to sleep. He wishes he could stay but the fingers stroking his stomach and hip might as well be a knockout pill, because it's all he can do to keep his eyes open one last second, see the figure still lying between his legs before his eyes fall shut and he sleeps.

When Gerard wakes, he feels almost guilty, almost sad. Like there's something missing even though he isn't sure what there is to miss. He sighs, says a quick prayer (it's like a good morning to God, he thinks, which is only respectful). He shuffles to the tiny bathroom, turns on the squeaking shower faucet, sheds his pajamas to the floor and shivers briefly before checking the water. It's freezing, of course, so he mutters a curse before hopping around the bathroom in an attempt to keep warm. It may only be October, but the breeze is chilling Gerard straight to his bones. He glances in the cracked, stained mirror and freezes. His body is as horribly familiar as it always is, but there are purple fingerprints coating Gerard's thighs and hipbones.  
"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck."


	2. between a crucifix and the hollywood sign

It's a Saturday, and Saturdays mean showers because Gerard really hates wet hair but he does like to be clean for church.   
So he drags himself from the mirror, maneuvers himself under the spray. It's still chilly, but it's warmer than the air outside, and that's all he can ask. He keeps staring at the bruises lining his hips, though. The shock is enough to keep him from singing in the shower, which he normally can get caught up in for hours. He sings all over the church usually, but this has shocked him into silence. The water pressure is roughly akin to being gently drooled on by a giant toddler, and he washes quickly (even his greasy hair) before turning the knob and clambering out of the tub.  
He's grateful for the cold air. It gives him an excuse to stop staring in the mirror, plaguing himself with what the fuck that had /been./ Because- well, that was something, wasn't it?  
It's a Saturday, so Gerard stocks the wood stove downstairs and then goes back to bed. He writes a letter to Mikey.   
He's still lost in thought when he fumbles for a cigarette, but the box is empty. He doesn't think he smoked them all last night, but things have a tendency to disappear here. Gerard doesn't mind much, because it's either things easily replaced (cigarettes, candles, matches, even), or they show back up sooner or later. (A book, one time, donated by the town librarian to the church. Gerard got halfway through reading it before it disappeared, turning back up a few days later.)  
It's just one of those things. He's accepted it, but he considers it now and wonders if it might be part of something more sinister, something maybe even dangerous.   
Gerard has never scared easily. That's not quite correct: Gerard scares easily, but he also likes being scared, so it's not as much of an issue as it could be.   
It's quiet. Quieter than normal, somehow, despite the silence that's usually present. Like it goes deeper, sits heavier. Like if Gerard speaks something terrible is going to happen to him.   
He dismisses it.   
When the stairs creak, he's surprised he hasn't imagined it sooner. Paranoia, that's all. That's it. Missing cigarettes and returned books and bruises on his hips, maybe he's crazy, maybe he's just been alone too long. He'll do something about it, later. Make a note in the paper about needing an assistant, maybe, or invite Mikey to come visit sooner rather than later. After he's done his laundry. After he's swept the church.   
But then there's another creak on the stairs and his shoulders tense, because he's definitely not imagining it that time. A burglar, probably. Okay. They can take whatever they came to take, and Gerard will deal with the fallout later.   
But as he's listening intently he realizes the creaks aren't coming from the stairs up to his flat. They're coming from the basement.   
And that brings a whole other dimension of horror to the situation.   
All these years and he's still never been there. Was he a complete idiot, or just in denial? How had he been such a fool? Someone must have been - yes, the matches, and the noises, and the book, and (his eyes drift downward briefly) the bruises. Someone's living in his basement. Someone's living in his basement, and has been for who knows how long now, and that's -   
Fine. It's fine. Gerard is fine, everything is fine.   
(There's a person in his basement. Nothing is fine.)  
He takes a deep breath and walks to his kitchen and picks up the largest knife he owns. It's not particularly sharp - he hasn't used it since last year's potluck dinner - but it looks intimidating enough, and he figures that's important right now. He'd prefer not to stab anyone, but he thinks it can't hurt to look like he's prepared to do so.   
Gerard steps down the first stair carefully, intently. The hall is eerily silent again.   
He takes the stairs slowly.

He doesn't see it all at once. Dark hair, first, then a sheepish smile with - oh, shit - the glint of a lip ring. Gerard's eyes widen and he tries to step back, but his feet only hit the edge of the previous stair, and he stumbles, sliding down the steps until he's planted firmly at the bottom of the steps, ass on the ground, blinking owlishly up at this person, this thing.   
"Are you okay?" it - he - asks, lip twitching like he's trying not to laugh.   
Gerard is taken aback. He's not from the village, that much is sure. Gerard would have recognized someone like that. It's less that he's conventionally attractive, because he's not quite; his eyes are a little too bright and his face full of shiny metal but there's something about the hard line of his jaw below his soft cheek that strikes Gerard as beautiful. He doesn't reply, merely gapes, overflowing with too many questions for anything to come out of his mouth.   
"Right," the man, the boy says, frowning a little. "Okay. So. Hey. I'm Frank."   
Gerard peeps.  
"I hate to barge in like this - well, I don't, really, but - fuck, I'm doing this all wrong. So, listen. There's a hole in your basement."  
"My basement," Gerard repeats faintly.   
"Your basement," he confirms. "There's a hole."   
"In...the...wall?" Gerard doesn't know what else he might be talking about. The basement's firmly encased in the earth on all sides. Maybe he means there's a leak? Odd wording, though. 'There's a hole.' That could mean anything.   
"In the-" He, _Frank,_ shakes his head. "No, it's kinda more complicated than that, sorry. Lemme - shit, it'd probably be faster if I just showed you, but I don't think that's smart now. Okay. There's a hole in your basement."   
"To where?" Gerard manages.   
Frank makes a pained face. "This is awkward," he says. "Jeez, you're a priest, I kinda figured you'd be up on this stuff. You are the priest, right? You must be. Anyway." He shakes his head. "To Hell. There's a hole to Hell in your basement."


End file.
